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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29763819">Tyrant</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverhaunter/pseuds/Silverhaunter'>Silverhaunter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa Another Episode: Ultra Despair Girls, Super Dangan Ronpa 2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Komaeda Nagito sees Kamukura Izuru as a god), Brief mention of pregnancy in a fantasy, Cannibalism, Despair Disease (Dangan Ronpa), Hinata Hajime Has Despair Disease, Hinata Hajime and Kamukura Izuru Share a Body Simultaneously, M/M, Non-Graphic Sex, Self-Mutilation (Nagito), Sort of? - Freeform, brief mention of abortion in a fantasy, minor religious imagery, temporary major character death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:13:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,949</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29763819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverhaunter/pseuds/Silverhaunter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He is a god with careless eyes, an angel, he is Justice finding Truth and he is Adam serving Hell and he is Man destroying God.<br/>Below him, Izuru’s face is marble, a shadow cast by Nagito’s body covering his eyes with darkness— He is Judgement completing Justice, he is Lucifer defining Adam and he is God creating Man. </p><p>In which Hinata Hajime has the Talented Disease, and becomes Kamukura Izuru.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>141</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tyrant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> When he is carefully hefted into the pod, the sedative coursing through his IV awakens some part of him, a part (a long forgotten part), which wakes up and fights. This long forgotten piece of him, kicks, scratches, screams and bites at the doctor’s throats. He catches a brown-haired boy at the jugular and nearly tears his flesh open with his teeth before he is yanked backward by his long hair, a blond man nestling a taser neatly between his hip and ribs.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t scream when he goes down, fire sizzling, popping and finally going out as his muscles seize, giving way, letting him fall haphazardly into his pod.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He is whimpering, tears running down his face and body shaking with great heaving sobs, body going limp as they force his limbs and hair into the pod, forcing his consciousness to integrate into the program.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Future Foundation does not see the USB until it is too late.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hinata Hajime can’t help but smile as the lid to their pod lowers, tears suddenly dry.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It starts not because he’s feeling bad, or sick, but because he can’t feel anything at all.</p><p>Hinata Hajime doesn’t collapse— there’s no big reveal that he’s changed, really, at least not at first. His mind remembers before his body does. </p><p>He enters Komaeda’s room the same way he always does, if not a little more efficiently— not that anyone but Hinata would notice.</p><p>“I wish you’d leave,” Komaeda says for the umpteeth time, “I’m feeling great. I want you to go and never come back.”</p><p>“Hush,” Hinata says, in a low voice, slower, a cadence less frantic than his usual one, <em> confident— </em>sure of himself.</p><p>Instinctively, Komaeda’s mouth clamps shut, as if ruled entirely by muscle memory. The smile that stretches across his face betrays his silent thoughts, butterflies scuttling through his stomach and riding the flow of his blood into his veins, making his heart pound loudly in his ears. He is confused, remembering something from long ago. He <em> wants </em>. </p><p>He sits up in the bed, his hand grasping at an imaginary collar at his throat. He smiles, other hand gripping the sheets. </p><p>“Get away from me,” Komaeda says, softly, though it is foreign for him to beg, “I need you as far from me as possible.”</p><p>Hinata obliges his false words, sitting beside him on the bed.</p><p>Komaeda wants to get closer, so close as to crawl inside of him and become somebody else.</p><p>“Something is wrong with me,” Hinata says secretively, “I don’t feel quite like myself, I don’t <em> feel </em> at all, really. Like emotion has been drained from me. It’s like I’m bored all the time, and if I do feel something, I’m experiencing only irritating, secondary emotions..”</p><p>His eyes glint an unfamiliar smokey brown in the harsh lighting of the clinic.</p><p>Hinata folds his hands, continuing speaking even though Komaeda’s mouth is still clamped shut.</p><p>“You know when you wake up from a dream where you are sick and you are confused as to why you are not sick when you wake up? Or where someone who is dead in reality is alive in your dream, and you are confused when you first open your eyes?”</p><p>‘No, not at all,’ Komaeda thinks, only somewhat bitterly, illness making his body shake.</p><p>“The first time I understood that I was conscious it was like there was someone in my mind curled up against me, as if there was a body resting against mine, chest-to-chest in a cold metal box. It was very comforting—familiar, almost. I was alone, on my back, and still I felt as if there was someone with me, screaming, begging to be set free. I could see myself getting close enough to bite someone’s throat out, only to be pulled away. But it wasn’t <em> me, </em>as if I was dreaming—as if I thought I was someone else.”</p><p>Komaeda reaches out with his hand, his palm facing the ceiling, his face twisted into a grimace. </p><p>Brown eyes turn toward the ceiling, grasping Komaeda’s hand desperately, but not looking toward him, it would be… impolite to look at Hinata, as he is, so he doesn’t, until Hinata retreats back into his own room.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Komaeda Nagito, yeah?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Remnant of Despair doesn’t turn around, eyes cast down the empty road, “Yes, and I’m sorry to be rude, but I’m sort of waiting for someone…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Waiting?” Naegi Makoto’s voice is unbearably sweet. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, I’ve been waiting.” This is usually the part where, much like Junko Enoshima herself, the Despairs will mindlessly elaborate, will rant and rave thinking they’ve always got the upper hand, ruling the land and seas and skies with barely any effort, but Komaeda stays quiet, looking down and past the road. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Something in Naegi aches for him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re the Super Highschool-Level Lucky Student, right? I’m the same, but from the 78th class! We met a couple times before, I’m Naegi Makoto.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes, of course,” Komaeda says, absently. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Are you looking for another Remnant, perhaps? To my understanding, most of them have been missing for several weeks.” He doesn’t say ‘the world is starting to recover, already, with only a few weeks worth of freedom.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Komaeda knows that better than any of them, can hear the unspoken words, and simply shrugs, picking at his cuticles.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Suddenly, something occurs to Naegi, forbidden and locked away, something he hopes, for Komaeda’s sake, isn’t true. </em>
</p><p><em> “Do you </em> <b> <em>remember </em> </b> <em> who you’re looking for?” </em></p><p>
  <em> There’s been no sign of Kamukura Izuru— the only one of Junko’s underlings (if he can even be called that) that hasn’t been found. When questioned, even under sedatives, the other despairs don’t recognize the name. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Word used to go around that Komaeda Nagito followed closely behind him. Word used to go around that they were something like a warning, for when they would come the Despairs were not far behind, though destruction was not something Komaeda and Kamukura were ever prone to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ….but… if that rumor was true, would that also mean…? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Makoto” Byakuya says, his eyes warily flicking over Komaeda, “They have a lead on Kamukura’s wearabouts.” And that isn’t like Byakuya, to say something so carelessly, but he has always been the morbidly curious type. Togami’s nature is cruelty, just as Naegi’s is kindness, even though they each are capable of either. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Komaeda is staring at him, his mouth silently testing the words. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “That name is very familiar to me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Just as Komaeda’s nature is to love insatiably. </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura Izuru has no nature at all. He is unnatural. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I used to hate how blood tasted,” Komaeda says, running his tongue along the flat side of the knife, pooling blood on the end like it’s frosting, “I used to hate the warmth of it when my nose would bleed, the way it felt like my lungs would stink of metal for hours afterward.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura doesn’t seem to really respond, as the other man carves at a body he doesn’t see as human anymore, “Have you ever tried to eat a person?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The man with black hair is scavenging for food, searching pockets and backpacks, even while cooling hands grab hold of him, pleading desperately, gurgling as their lungs collapse. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I have. I did it for the first time when I was eight or nine. I was just old enough to realize the severity of what I was doing but not old enough to prefer starvation to stooping that low. It was right after I was kidnapped. I got thrown in some abandoned place once they realized there was nobody to pay any ransome for me. It was when I finally tore my way out of the garbage bag, which, coincidentally contained a lottery ticket, that I realized I couldn’t escape the place I’d been trapped in. Just like the people before me hadn’t escaped. I got out after a while, my body was aching and I had only eaten… well, the other prior captives— Kamukura, am I boring you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes,” Kamukura says, as Komaeda cuts into a body, raises his bloody fingers to his lips, “Everything bores me, and you and your useless talent are particularly boring.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Komaeda frowns, “Do you want me to go, then?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He has been getting very good at catching Kamukura’s weak lies. Predictable as it is, since Kamukura wants him to catch them, it is a game for them both that passes the time,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No.” </em>
</p><p><em> “You know, I can’t see them as people, anymore. Especially the ones who’ve fallen into despair. They disgust me. I would never kill a </em> <b> <em>person</em> </b> <em> ,” Komaeda looks sick, staring at the body all of a sudden, as if his brain has regained its ability to feel empathy, “But I think about killing </em> <b> <em>them </em> </b> <em> sometimes.” </em></p><p><em> Kamukura </em> <b> <em>wants</em> </b> <em> to make him kill, wants to make him kill people less and less deserving to die, until Komaeda snaps and becomes something else. In that moment, he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything— because up until now, he’s never known want.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He realizes that is wrong, but he doesn’t know how to stop thinking it.  </em>
</p><p><b> <em>Deprevare</em> </b> <em> : the word comes to him suddenly, </em> <b> <em>to taint or corrupt.</em> </b></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>‘Hinata’ wakes up practically choking on his own hair.</p><p>He slides off the bed gracelessly and stumbles to the mirror, his palm making it shake as he leans against the basin. </p><p>Black hair falls in <em> sheets </em>around him, eyes glaring at him, red, unimpressed, shadowed by unnaturally long and dark lashes. </p><p>His fingernails have cut into his hands during the night, inhumanly strong, and he has ground his teeth into his tongue and lip. </p><p>The wounds are minor—meaningless. </p><p>Something like disappointment flashes across his face. </p><p>
  <em> Predictable. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ...Predictable? </em>
</p><p>Leaving the bathroom, he dresses himself, a frown scowl permanently set to his lips. </p><p>Komaeda’s eyes widen almost comically when they meet his own, barging into his room unannounced.</p><p>“I was not looking for Hinata,” Komaeda says, slowly, the words tumbling out of his mouth as if practiced, “and yet, you do and don’t look like him.” Some things have no opposite, it would seem. </p><p>“Servant,” a slip of the tongue, unlike him, impossible— <em> intentional, </em>“So you made it, too.”</p><p>Servant(?) seems unphased by his words, “No I did not,” and technically, that is not <em> un </em>true, since he is, in fact, Komaeda Nagito.</p><p>“Kamukura Izuru,” He lifts his hand in what is exactly the perfect amount for a formal greeting, opens up his body language in an attempt to disarm the other man, falls easily in step using his talents, “It’s a pleasure.”</p><p>“It is not,” Komaeda says, hesitantly, as if lost in thought, grabbing his hand firmly, but not letting go.</p><p>“This encounter is despairing. Nothing will come of this.“</p><p>“Hush.”</p><p>Komaeda’s mouth clamps shut.</p><p>“Come,” Kamukura says, guiding him back to his room. </p><p>
  <em> intimate, </em>
</p><p>Komaeda thinks suddenly, the thought unbidden, untrustworthy. (He wants to reach out and touch him,)</p><p>
  <em> closely acquainted; familiar, close. </em>
</p><p>Inexcusable.</p><p>“You disgust me,” He says, without meaning to, and perhaps it’s good that he can’t tell the truth, “You remind me of what it is to despair.”</p><p>Kamukura does not stop walking, nor does he let go of Komaeda’s wrist.</p><p>“I should cut my hair,” he mutters, though not without contempt, as they pass another broken mirror, “It’s suspicious.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Komaeda says, far too quickly, “You should.” </p><p>Kamukura raises an eyebrow, perfectly groomed, unlike Hinata’s, which were unruly. Komaeda isn’t sure why he’s suddenly aware of what Hinata’s eyebrows look like. </p><p>“Are you Hinata-kun?”</p><p>“<em> -kun?” </em></p><p>“Are you <em> Hinata Hajime </em>or not?” </p><p>“Yes and no. Mostly no.” Kamukura turns to face him, pulling him quickly into Hinata’s room and shutting the door.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamakura’s lips taste sweet- so sweet in fact that Komaeda can’t help but lick his lips even after they’ve kissed, however briefly.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura’s hair smells like children’s detangler— a sour false-pear smell that sits heavy on the back of Komaeda’s tongue. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He drags Izuru back in for another kiss, sucking on his tongue. There’s something sour, rotten at the back of Izuru’s mouth, but Komaeda keeps kissing him anyway, drawing breath after breath from the other man until he can’t breathe him in anymore. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I have to go,” Izuru murmurs against his lips, comfortable enough to know Komaeda won’t kiss him now that he’s pushed him away, even if only slightly.  Kamukura does not like to be touched. </em>
</p><p><em> “Junko isn’t here, you don’t </em> <b> <em>have </em> </b> <em> to do anything, you’re our leader, a god of hope, I love you—“ </em></p><p><em> Izuru pushes him a little father back, “Therein lies the problem. You don’t </em> <b> <em>love</em> </b> <em> me,” Izuru’s eyes are like rubies— dynamic, impossible— unnaturally cut, they gleam in the sunlight, the red of the sky a perfect background for his godliness, “You love The Ultimate Hope, you love Izuru Kamukura, but you do not love </em> <b> <em>me</em> </b> <em> .”  </em></p><p><em> “You </em> <b> <em>are</em> </b> <em> Kamakura-kun, so what does it matter if there is a difference?”  </em></p><p>
  <em> Izuru looks…. sort of sad, actually.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Not that he can feel sadness, technically speaking. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I am not what you think I am.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You are what you’ve always been.” Komaeda says, cautiously. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I started as nothing, and became hope, and became despair, and now I am something in-between. I have always been a tool. I will always be a tool— I am something to be used, that’s fact. It’s why I was created.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Where will you go? To Junko?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes,” </em>
</p><p><em> “Because </em> <b> <em>she </em> </b> <em> loves you?” </em></p><p>
  <em> “Love is complicated.” </em>
</p><p><em> “You’re lying to me and you’re lying to yourself. You’re nothing but a tool— something to be used, you said it yourself. Besides! Junko loves </em> <b> <em>nothing. </em> </b> <em> Not despair, not you, not your usefulness, at least...not like </em> <b> <em>I </em> </b> <em> love you.” </em></p><p>
  <em> “You’re unwell, Komaeda.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You should go, I hear that Kuzuryuu and Pekoyama are not far behind.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We will go.” </em>
</p><p><b> <em>We… </em> </b> <em> huh. Komaeda finds he likes the sound of that. </em></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“How did your hair grow so quickly?” Komaeda says, as Kamukura pulls off his shirt silently in front of him, grabbing scissors from underneath his pillow. Typically, he clutches them in sleep, hoping not to be the next one killed.</p><p>“I think we should talk about the obvious,” Kamukura says, long hair falling to the floor in chunks, hair curling and sticking up at odd angles, “You’re a target, a little more than you always are, but Ibuki is a target as well— she has the gullible disease. You have the lying— that is to say the misunderstood disease, since it doesn’t just manifest as lying. It makes you relatively impossible to understand. I have the Talented Disease, as Hajime Hinata, was, as you may have guessed, talentless.”  </p><p>Komaeda’s face twists, his skin itching.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p><em> Komaeda’s eyes roll back into his head, one leg pushed to his chest, between Kamakura and himself. Komaeda can imagine becoming addicted to the way he can feel Kamukura ease himself into Komaeda’s body. Kamukura pulls Komaeda’s trapped leg over his shoulder, pushing deeper, as Komaeda scratches at the arm closest to him. Komaeda whimpers, scrabbling at Kamakura, “fuck,” he can </em> <b> <em>feel </em> </b> <em> Kamakura, the slide of his body on top of him, the weight of him pushing inside, the pulses of heat. His breath quickens and he tilts his head, resting it against the shitty motel pillow.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Komaeda has to keep reminding himself he’s the experienced one here, that he’s in control, especially when Kamukura caresses him like he’s something breakable and worth treating with kindness.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura is unbearably gentle, massaging his fingers into Komaeda’s thigh as he moves his hips slowly.  </em>
</p><p><em> “ </em> <b> <em>move, </em> </b> <em> damn you, </em> <b> <em>hurt me,” </em> </b> <em> and it’s desperate, it’s a plea, it’s ‘i don’t know what i’ll do if you don’t’ it’s ‘please, god, help me understand.’  </em></p><p>
  <em> Kamukura breathes out slowly through his nose, pretending not to see Komaeda shattering beneath him, trying not to see the way his pale, slender body trembles with fear.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It is best, perhaps, if he is not so gentle. After all, to Komaeda, it is the same as cruelty.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura gives him what he begs for— since he is, after all, only a man. The white-haired man screams, his nerves white-hot as Izuru brushes against them. His shoulders hit the plaster wall particularly hard, at some point, though the seconds are all blurring together—his lungs aching with the effort to just keep breathing. His mouth is dropped open, sounds spilling from him that he can’t even hear, his body shaking. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s not scared now that Izuru is meeting expectations, He’s not as scared of the pain. Pain is familiar— a stroke of bad luck.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura Izuru is a stroke of bad luck. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s a mantra in his head, ‘Let this be bad luck, let this be bad luck,’—- too good to be true.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Izuru wraps his arms roughly around Komaeda, one hand low on his back and the other sliding under his arm and caressing his shoulders, dragging him closer to the middle of the bed. Komaeda whines against Izuru’s throat as Izuru pulls him closer, their chests flush, colliding in a way that nearly knocks the breath from him. Komaeda can barely move, can’t think about good or bad luck, anymore, with the way Izuru is possessing him so wholly, nails digging into his shoulder. Izuru’s hair is like silk, even when Komaeda grabs and yanks at it—pulls and pulls and pulls until he gets a gasp out of Izuru (satisfying in it’s own right) the man flinching backward, arching away from Komaeda, who pushes him down onto his back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Izuru’s hair falls behind him like shadows of angel’s wings, his chest heaving beautifully, eyes red-hot coals, burning with some sort of emotion.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Komaeda seats himself in Izuru’s lap, and the man throws his head back silently, hands flying to Komaeda’s hips. Komaeda wants to scream as he flattens his hand across Izuru’s navel, working his body, taking Izuru as deeply as possible only to pull away and leave himself cold and empty. He arches his back, clenches every muscle he can think of, and Izuru finally moans— and when he does it’s his given name, over and over again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nagito nearly falls apart, clenches his muscles and cries out desperately, his body alight with the sound of his own name.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Izuru, Izuru, oh, fuck—“ The sounds he makes are pretty, though wrecked— hellish, otherworldy, his white hair illuminated by dingy motel lighting. </em>
</p><p><em> Nagito </em> <b> <em>screams</em> </b> <em> Izuru’s name as stars explode across his vision, the heat of Izuru following soon after him overwhelming him to the point his vision goes entirely white, a low-pitched ringing in his ear not unlike Izuru’s voice— a long, melodic sound, sad and aching.  </em></p><p>
  <em> When he opens his eyes again, the lights are off in the room. Izuru is tucked into his side, his hair noticeably brushed. When Nagito rubs his thighs together, they are not sticky— cleaned. He very abruptly notices he’s got an unfamiliar black sweater on, and thick black sweatpants. A familiar color palette. The sweater smells like Izuru, like his sweat and his ‘luxury’ shampoo and his expensive cologne— bergamot, black currant, pineapple, white peach, cedarwood— Nagito could drown in his scent happily--- knows it by heart, in fact. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There is clear ointment on the scratches Izuru left on his stomach. Nagito doesn’t notice the tears rolling down his cheeks until he notices Izuru brushing them away, his eyes searching Nagito’s face with an expression not unlike concern. </em>
</p><p><em> “I </em> <b> <em>love</em> </b> <em> you,” Nagito says, a horrified sound wrenching it’s way out of his chest, “Oh god, I </em> <b> <em>love</em> </b> <em> you.” </em></p><p><em> “Basic human decency isn’t cause for love,” Izuru murmurs, because he doesn’t </em> <b> <em>understand. </em> </b></p><p><em> “No, no, it’s not just this, it’s </em> <b> <em>everything, </em> </b> <em> it’s you and who you are and the way you look at me like you can </em> <b> <em>feel </em> </b> <em> concern for me.” </em></p><p>
  <em> Izuru opens his mouth only to close it. </em>
</p><p><em> “You’re the only one who’s ever </em> <b> <em>stayed, </em> </b> <em> not to mention cared for me after, and you’re expecting me not to… not to be attached?” </em></p><p>
  <em> “Not expecting… not… requiring it, either.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nagito nearly breaks Izuru’s nose he turns toward him so quickly. Izuru moves just slightly enough just in time that their faces don’t collide. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What are you saying?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Izuru looks just as troubled as he is, “I…”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Izuru, can I stay with you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Izuru looks relieved that he doesn’t have to explain himself, and instead, can just say, “Yes.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Inside Hinata Hajime’s mindscape</em> </b> <em> : </em></p><p> </p><p>“I have concerns,” The vision of Hajime, (white shirt, green tie, brown slacks) that is their conscience says, “As to trying to trick our classmates. I want to be opaque.”</p><p>Hinata, who is their First, Deepest Self, Inner Consciousness, snarls, adjusts the tie on his Reserve Course uniform, “Can you just… shut the hell up, man? Nobody cares what you have to say, here or otherwise. Nobody’s listening.” </p><p>“No one ever listens,” Patient assents, bandages covering his eyes, a dressing gown slipping off of one shoulder, he is their most base emotional response,“I just want to be happy. Why can’t we just do what makes us happy?”</p><p>Hinata frowns, “Nothing makes you happy. You’re the reason we’re in this mess, if we had just given up—“</p><p>Kamukura, who is their logic and their talents, “We would never have given up. It wasn’t an option. You shouldn’t be angry with him. We’re all responsible, to a degree.” He’s caressing Patient’s face, dabbing away blood that leaks out from underneath the sloppily tied bandages. </p><p>Izuru is just… himself, a pilot— their most frontal self, “Hinata Hajime is responsible for creating Kamukura Izuru, and <em> he </em> is responsible for allowing us to become despairing. I don’t think it is fair to pretend otherwise. We are all individually and wholly responsible”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
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</p><p>“Some people are fated to die.” Tanaka says, pointedly looking at Kamukura— ( who he is meant to think is Hinata. He is the only one who seems to see through him— past his exterior— there is a familiarity between liars—) He does not say, ‘fated to die sooner than others’ but it is implied, “It is the singular truth of life itself. The gods themselves couldn’t stop it.”</p><p><em> ‘So how did you?’ </em> It is not spoken, but the question sits heavily on Kamukura’s chest.</p><p>“Isn’t that a little dark?” Kamukura says, his tone an entire octave higher than he prefers it— grating, “I think it’s cruel to say something like that right now, where is Souda?” Tanaka disappears from the camera, and Souda reappears, looking at Kamukura strangely, “I think <em> he’s </em>coming down with despair disease,” Souda jokes, because he is uncomfortable, and Kuzuryuu looks toward Kamukura, past him, his mind wandering further the longer the silence envelopes them. Kamukura lets an uneasy smile grace his features, “I think we should talk about the… I think we should talk about how to prevent something from happening.” </p><p>Kuzuryuu whirls around, his eyes wide, “What makes you think anything will happen? Mikan has the disease under control.” </p><p>“I mean,” Kamukura gestures, vaguely, “If… someone tried to take advantage of the motive.”</p><p>“Like-- Like--” Souda seems like he wants to end their chat as soon as possible.</p><p>“You think somebody’s going to be murdered,” Kuzuryuu says, slowly, his eyes focused on Kamukura, suspiciously, “I’d even say you seem certain of it.”</p><p>Damn yakuza.</p><p>“Well of course-- Mioda has the gullible disease.” A calculated slip of the tongue to make things more interesting. Mioda, not Ibuki.</p><p>
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</p><p>
  <em> “I’m bored,” Kamukura says, resolutely, and Junko scoffs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She twirls one of her bangs around her finger, whining, “You’re always bored! What’s a girl gotta do to entertain you? I literally started the apocalypse for you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura steps over a body and doesn’t even have enough emotion in him to sneer in distaste as blood gets on his shoe. He clicks his tongue, pulling his hair over his shoulder to duck underneath some rubble of what used to be the Diet building, “You started the apocalypse because you wanted to, no other reason.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Right as always, Kamukura, darling.” She smooths her skirt over her ass in a way that’s probably supposed to be sexual, but Kamukura just looks like he’d like to impale himself on the closest rebar rather than look at her. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t, like,” she swings her bat at an already-mutilated dead body, “pretend to be interested in it. For my sake.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “For your sake,” Kamukura says under his breath, and her jaw drops comically wide. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Kamukura, babe, you’ve gotta throw me a bone here, literal or metaphorical! I’m dying out here! Like, at this point, I wonder if you’re trying to make me feel despair! It’s not working, obviously, because despair is, like, kind of my thing, but your effort is, ...commendable, I guess.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m just waiting for something more interesting to happen.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Okay, but can you stop looking at my little despairs like you wish they’d drop dead? It’s totally making my little rabbit’s foot feel hopeful and I hate that shit.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Anything that displeases you pleases him.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh my god, you’re totally fucking on the side, aren’t you? I knew it. He totally creamed his pants when you shot him. Which was really funny-- and, like, sad, obviously, because he’s totally a moron, but like, funny! So ..good for you two! Can’t wait to see the despair that overcomes him when you inevitably betray his ideals because you get bored of them. Keep me updated, kay? Ew. What the hell is that?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She scrapes something off of her shoe. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She turns around and Kamukura is looking at her sort of like he’s feeling an emotion-- well, whatever emotion causes sheer murderous intent.  </em>
</p><p><em> A thrill runs up her spine and a heat pools low in her stomach, the emptiness on his face unmatching to the sheer violence in his eyes. It’s not that Kamukura is feeling anything, technically, but somehow that makes the despair she’s feeling all the sweeter, deeper, more intense. Enoshima’s stomach drops and swoops, a mindless fear clogging her throat. A smile graces her lips, and she runs a hand down her face. This is why she keeps him around-- </em> <b> <em>this. </em> </b> <em> He’s capable of killing her, capable of killing any of them, but he doesn’t even though, oh god, he totally could, and there’s something-- a shudder runs through her and her lips part, a single heated breath escaping-- something incredible about that, and-- it’s like... </em></p><p><em> “Pathetic,” Kamukura mutters, with something sort of like </em> <b> <em>annoyance </em> </b> <em> and Enoshima sucks her lower lip into her mouth, licking sweet-tasting gloss off of her teeth when she releases it.  </em></p><p>
  <em> ...It’s like he can hear her thoughts, almost. </em>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Mikan reinserts Komaeda’s IV, and he yelps-actually cries out in pain. He feels almost like his vein popped. It hasn’t, judging by the lack of bruising.</p><p>Mikan promptly faints in front of them. </p><p>“She’s got the despair disease.” Kamukura says, and Komaeds thankfully gets out “How?” </p><p>“I gave it to her.”</p><p>Komaeda wants to kiss him. Wants to get on his knees and thank him.</p><p> </p><p><em> The first time either of them gets on their knees, it’s Kamukura, head bowed between </em> <b> <em>Servant’s</em> </b> <em> legs, deft fingers unbuttoning his jeans like his very life depends on it. His mouth is something incomprehensible— hot- almost scalding and, and his voice shakes Servant’s entire body when he arches </em> <b> <em>back</em> </b> <em> and up into Kamukura. The man pushes Servant down, holds him still with a single hand— a warning.  </em></p><p><em> Kamukura’s always been like this— he revels in being able to guide someone to experience a </em> <b> <em>first</em> </b> <em> — anybody, be it his hand slipping under Junko’s skirt or along Fuyuhiko’s thigh, but Komaeda’s glad to know that Kamukura only debases </em> <b> <em>himself</em> </b> <em> for Servant— Komaeda— god, whoever he is, it doesn’t matter with Kamukura’s mouth working him so expertly. Kamukura’s pretty sure that whoever had this body before him was a virgin, but with all his talent it’s hard not to know what makes sex good—better than good— for everyone involved.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t spit, either, which somehow, is incredibly appealing— their bodies mingling, ultimate talent falling beneath him, and god, if he went so incredibly spent he’d take Kamukura then and there, on the rough red carpet of Junko’s bedroom floor. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’d like to see Kamukura become a father— were it possible— he wonders what a child of Ultimate Hope and Ultimate Despair would end up as. Komaeda abruptly thinks of Naegi Makoto. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It doesn’t matter, though, since Kamukura is incapable of children— and Junko would kill anything living inside of her that didn't scream despair—Kamukura hates children regardless.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. Kamukura’s staring. </em>
</p><p><em> Kamukura doesn’t say anything, but sort of looks at him like, ‘i just sucked you off and you’re thinking of </em> <b> <em>her?’ </em> </b></p><p>
  <em> Disgusting. Komaeda is inclined to kiss him.  </em>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Komaeda hates children. <em> hates </em>them. Wouldn’t get within a hundred feet of one if he could help it. Thus he usually avoids Mikan, who shares many characteristics of a child, like the plague. </p><p>“I love children,” Is what comes out of his mouth, and Kamukura scowls, checking Mikan’s forehead, already soaked with sweat. </p><p>“She’ll kill,” Kamukura says, “I’m certain of it.”</p><p>“What will we do?”</p><p>“Absolutely nothing.”</p><p>Komaeda wants to cry. wants to kiss him. wants Hajime back. </p><p>
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</p><p>The biggest difference between Kamukura and Hinata is that Hinata feels fear. Komaeda wakes up to soft whimpering. </p><p>Also, Hinata sleeps.</p><p>Hinata is having a night terror, presumably green eyes screwed shut and mouth dropped open just enough to make broken crying sounds. </p><p>Komaeda aches for him.</p><p>“Shh, hajime,” and that’s what he’d intended to say, and if so— “ The despair disease is gone, you’re safe.” </p><p>Hinata reaches out to Komaeda, green eyes wide and watery, and starts crying in earnest. </p><p>Komaeda reaches for him, pulling him close and tucking him into the comforting linen smell of his own freshly made hospital bed.</p><p>They’re not friends.</p><p>
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</p><p>
  <em> Izuru doesn’t kiss him goodbye, when they finally part, but then again, if they don’t kiss goodbye, surely they’ll meet again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Romantic. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Will I finally get to kill her? the one i hate so much?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Izuru Kamukura is just a man, after all. </em>
</p><p>
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</p><p>He’s relieved. Feeling the pain in his legs and arms numb to something familiar and <em> easy </em> is the most euphoric thing Komaeda Nagito has felt in a while. Watching the spear hang precariously above him, butterflies twirling through his stomach, is even better. He’s scared, but he’s excited, too, because if this works he might finally be <em> done. </em>It’ll all be over. This agonizing life can be finished with and he can— and… and he can. Whatever. </p><p>The door finally breaks and the curtains catch on fire.</p><p>
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</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura stabs the corpse once, twice, three times, again and again and again and again,  </em>
</p><p><em> that was mine, that was </em> <b> <em>mine</em> </b> <em> , he was mine and you stole him and I hate you I hate you I hate you— I </em> <b> <em>hate—I feel and I hate.</em> </b></p><p>
  <em> He stabs her eye socket, he stabs her jaw hard enough it collapses, beats her face in until it’s just bone and sinew.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He spits on her corpse, mutilated  at the waist, arm and face. He plucks her bow from her suit jacket, setting it on fire with the old lighter he keeps in his pocket.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It burns his finger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He throws the lighter, too. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The flames catch on the curtains. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He can hear someone screaming. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe it’s him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Kamukura Izuru is just a man, after all.  </em>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Whatever compels Hinata to run <em> into </em> the fire, or more accurately, through and past it, isn’t natural. Maybe it’s <em> his </em> luck pulling them together. Maybe Hinata’s suddenly the luckier one.</p><p>It happens in flashes. Hinata sees the spear hovering over Komaeda, though not where it originates, and throws himself over him. In some small part of his head he knows his body alone wouldn’t stop the spear and Komaeda would still get impaled, but he has to— he <em> has to.  </em></p><p>There is nothing more important in that moment than taking this singular blow for the other boy. One horrible thing out of a hundred horrible things that has happened to Komaeda, and Hinata refuses to stand by and watch another disaster— this time fatal— find him. </p><p>Komaeda says something, scathing and empty, though his mouth is covered in duct tape.  Hinata ignores him— just holds on tighter, tries to cover more and more of Komaeda with his body.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he says, quickly, as the fire continues to rage, to lick its way past the curtains and into the room they’re both in, “It’s okay.”</p><p>Komaeda stiffens— (like he’s scared) and then goes limp.</p><p>Hinata can feel himself crying, now, big heaving sobs and loud distinctive wailing, because, <em> oh my god, you can’t die, please don’t be dead.  </em></p><p><em> “ </em>I’ve got you,” he says with a sob, “I’ve got you, you’re gonna be okay.”</p><p>Nagito doesn't respond. </p><p>The flames reach Hinata’s outstretched leg and he screams like his mind is breaking. Like he’s discovered something horrible, eyes bloodshot red and emptied of feeling. Nagito at least has the courtesy to flinch. </p><p>“It’s okay,” he says, as he tucks his legs closer to himself, “I’ve got you,”</p><p>Nagito hears the first extinguisher break. </p><p>….Hinata is going to die with him. </p><p>Perhaps that’s good. It will make the trial impossible for The Despairs to solve. After all, who will die first? Himself to poison or Hinata to the spear dangling above them? </p><p>He opens his eyes when the duct tape is ripped from his mouth. </p><p>Hinata’s lips fit against his own like a death sentence. Their mouths never leave one another, even as the poison fills their lungs, and Nagito’s hand loses grip of the spear’s cord. Even as Hinata yanks the cord sharply enough to change where it should land. Hinata is the first to be impaled, and he chokes, his eyes wide, as blood sprays violently from his lips, onto Nagito’s face.</p><p>Hinata’s lips finally leave his own as he cries out, and somehow he finds that he misses their warmth. </p><p>Hinata’s breath is ragged as he whimpers with deep broken sounds, his arms locked so that only the very edge of the spear touches Nagito’s stomach, cutting a small hole in his shirt. </p><p>Nagito can only hold Hinata as he coughs, flecks of blood landing on his own mouth.</p><p>Sentenced to a slow and agonizing death as Hinata’s body cools on top of him… perhaps it suits them both.</p><p>Hinata slumps just enough that the spear stabs Nagito, but not enough that it kills him.</p><p>Hinata forces his body to fall to the side, as his eyes flutter closed, his lung collapsing from the inside.</p><p>Does that make this suicide?</p><p>In that moment, he hates him more than <em> anything.  </em></p><p><em> He screams </em>, a big, ragged, ugly-sounding thing.</p><p>
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</p><p>Days later, as if by a miracle, Hinata Hajime wakes up. </p><p>He climbs out of a strange pod, and looks around, surprised to be alive, much less someplace that does not smell or look like the island.</p><p>Komaeda is hovering over him, with something like worry in his expression. </p><p>“Who would’ve thought the talentless reserve course student would thwart my luck with a hidden talent? Ultimate Hope, Ultimate Talent--- Really, you are worthless, and you can’t even <em> die </em>right.” </p><p>“I am not Izuru Kamukura,” Hinata says, though he doesn’t feel like that’s quite true,  “Were you scared when I died?” He runs his hands, unfamiliar and perfect down Komaeda’s arms, past his wrists, up to his neck to pull them close in a mockery of how they lay in death, their lips barely touching, “When the relief you crave was stolen from you by the reserve course student? When our luck battled and I won?”</p><p>Komaeda’s face twists into something ugly, hateful.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Liar.” Kamukura Izuru kisses him. </p><p>
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</p><p>
  <em> Komaeda Nagito is just a man, after all.  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This took me months to finish, so if you liked it, please leave kudos and, if you can, comment!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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